I hate how easily you lie to me.

Sweet words drip from your lips like honey

tricking me into trusting you again and again

only to be stung by the leftover bees who created them.

You’re so far from me,

even when we’re together.

You sleep so far from me that we need two blankets,

instead of one.

Rather than limbs intertwined and heads rested on shoulders,

you sleep silently, contentedly holding a pillow to your chest.

Alone.

I know the way you sleep with her.

The way you act as if I don’t know

I don’t fulfill your needs anymore, though it’s made obvious

by your blank smiles and flat out rejection.

You sleep hand and hand with her, legs over each other,

bodies pulled close.

Meanwhile, I’m sobbing at home at three in the morning.

Rocking back and forth, wheezing for breath as tears fall down my cheeks

like melted wax.

Dripping down cheeks, pooling on cracked lips, and finally slipping down to reside in collarbones.

I hate that each time you hurt me, each time you’re more cruel to me,

I only come back to you harder in fear of you leaving.

In my mind, I have to struggle to be good enough for you.

That’s why around you, I’m less of myself. Different.

I’m a closed off version of who I am, in fear of embarrassing myself

beyond all rationality.